


Oxytocin

by ConsultingPurplePants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, M/M, Smut Sunday, Uni!lock, handjobs, this is what studying endocrinology made me do, well this happened again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handsome rugby player catches Sherlock's eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxytocin

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. This happened again. People wanted me to write an actual fic for [this headcanon](http://consultingpurplepants.tumblr.com/post/142716487973/ok-but-unilock-sherlock-spotting-john-in-a), so here it is!   
> Again, this is a Smut Sunday that ran too long, but you can check out [my tumblr](http://consultingpurplepants.tumblr.com/tagged/i-made-smut) for shorter ones :)

He’s so busy rushing towards the registration office that he doesn’t notice his backpack’s strap is hanging loose until it snags on someone’s open locker. He sprawls almost comically onto the ground, the papers he’d been holding flying towards the ceiling in a truly spectacular fashion as most of the hallway comes to a stop and stares at him. There a few whispers, a snigger, and not a single attempt to help. 

Honestly, he’s thrilled that this is his last semester here at Queen Mary. 

He winces as he sits up and starts to gather his papers, counting them to make sure all of his registration forms are present. Still, no one moves towards him. 

Inwardly, he berates himself for leaving his final registration so late that it could no longer be done online; Mycroft would have had a field day. The titration he’d been working on had been too important to abandon for long enough to work on a course schedule, but now, under the mocking eyes of his colleagues, he starts to wonder if he could have possibly spared a few moments to do this from the safety of his tiny flat. 

He counts the papers one more time, and gasps sharply as anxiety overtakes him; he’s missing the tuition fee form with Mycroft’s signature on it. His chest tightens as the realization that he hasn’t got the time today to track Mycroft down and get a new signature dawns. He’s just starting to panic when someone thrusts the form into his trembling hand. 

“You missed one,” the person says, his tone far too warm to be someone Sherlock already knows. Sherlock glances up and locks gazes with a pair of cobalt blue eyes. 

His jaw only drops a little.

The man is short, but somehow his presence still manages to take up all of the space in the hallway. His blonde hair is short, but just long enough that it’s swept slightly into his forehead, looking perfectly windblown. He’s wearing a rugby jacket in the navy blue and yellow of the university, and is probably the first student in the history of the school to look good in it. 

Sherlock is suddenly acutely aware of how dry his mouth feels. 

“I—Thank you,” he manages, cursing the slight break in his voice. 

“John,” the man says, and smiles, making his eyes sparkle. “John Watson.”

He offers his hand.

“Sh—Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock answers. His hand somehow stops trembling just long enough to shake John’s. 

John gives him a parting grin, then heads back towards the group of friends he’d been chatting with when Sherlock embarrassed himself so thoroughly. Sherlock swallows, feeling like all of the air has suddenly rushed back into the hall. 

He looks down at the registration papers in his hand. Flips through them until he reaches his list of complementary courses. 

There’s room for one more.

***  
John Watson is reading medicine. His student record is clean, his grades are above average, and he’s in his final semester before his clinical rotations begin. 

Sherlock scrolls down the list of courses John (perfect, organized John) has already registered for, looking for something relevant to someone reading chemistry. He doesn’t want to _completely_ waste a class, after all. 

Cardiology, Pulmonology, Nephrology, none seem to cut it even close, until he finally reaches… _Endocrinology._

Hormones have chemical structures and effects that can be studied. Right? 

He clicks through to the course’s description page, quickly scanning before heading back to the page he’d hacked into on the library’s computers. John is in the section that has classes Mondays and Thursdays, so he clicks back to see how many places are left. 

Two. 

He hits refresh. 

One.

He logs off, gathers his papers and sprints from the room.

***  
On Monday morning, he sits next to John. 

John smiles up at him in recognition, laughing a bit when Sherlock plops his gangly limbs into the seat next to him, not even asking if it was free. 

“I didn’t know you were a medical student,” John says. 

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “I’m not.”

“What are you taking this course for, then?” John asks, puzzlement creasing his forehead. 

Sherlock scrambles for an answer. “Um… To see the physiological effects of chemistry?” 

“So you’re in chemistry then?”

“Obviously.”

John smiles, and class begins. 

***  
On Thursday afternoon, he sits next to John.

“Hey,” John says, shifting his things to leave room for Sherlock’s laptop. He smiles up at him again. 

The sparkle in his eyes makes Sherlock feel breathless. 

“Hi,” he murmurs. 

“How’s chemistry, then?”

“Exceedingly dull.” 

John laughs. 

Sherlock jerks his head up. John laughed?

“How so?” John asks, looking genuinely interested. Sherlock has no idea what to do. 

“The professors are dull, the students are all sleeping with each other, and no one seems to actually give a whit about the subject matter, which I already know,” he says, deciding that honesty might be the best course of action, for once. 

John leans closer. “How can you tell the students are all sleeping with each other? Aside from the fact that we’re in uni, obviously.”

Sherlock hesitates. 

John is an honestly interesting person, the first he’s met in an incredibly long time, and Sherlock’s deductions have ruined every relationship he’s ever had with the other honestly interesting people he’s met. He sits there, torn, until John nudges him. 

“Come on, tell me,” he says, and Sherlock is off.

“You see the girl sitting across from us, diagonally?” John nods. 

“She’s sleeping with the bloke three seats down to her left.” John opens his mouth, obviously to ask how he knows, so Sherlock goes on. “I can tell because they clearly slept in the same place and ate breakfast together. The coffee stains match up with a particular brand of coffee maker they stopped making several years ago, the odds of them both having one are incredibly slim.”

John looks fascinated. “But how can you tell they slept in the same place?”

As Sherlock starts to explain the pattern of skin creases he sees on their respective cheeks, he watches John’s expression grow more and more excited, his eyes widening and his entire body leaning in towards Sherlock. Sherlock would talk for hours and hours if it would make John lean any closer to him. 

He curses under his breath when class starts, and John refocuses his attentions on the professor. 

***  
On Saturday, he goes to John’s rugby game. 

He leaves halfway through, because the sight of John sprinting furiously, covered in mud and shouting orders makes his hands sweat and his heart beat too quickly in his chest.

***  
On Monday morning, the seat next to John is taken. 

Sherlock stands next to the chair, his arm hanging limp. Maybe John hadn’t been so fascinated after all; maybe he’d just been trying to be polite. 

Maybe he thought Sherlock was a freak, just like the rest of them. Sherlock swallows against the sudden knot in his throat. 

At that same moment, John turns around and sees him. He smiles widely, making Sherlock’s heart stutter in his chest, and then politely taps the other student on the shoulder. 

“Hi, sorry, but would you mind please moving one seat down? I’d like to sit with my friend,” he says, and the other student nods and gathers his things. John gestures to the chair.

_His friend._

Sherlock walks over on numb legs and nearly faints when John asks him if he wants to get a coffee with him later. 

***  
Over coffee, Sherlock finds out that John really, really likes medicine, and that Sherlock really, really likes John. 

John is animatedly gesturing as he explains how the NHS’s new hours are going to cut the salaries of junior doctors by nearly half, which is unacceptable because of how much they already work for surprisingly low pay, and Sherlock is barely paying any attention, nodding at what seems like the appropriate moment, transfixed by John’s slightly reddened cheeks, the way his hair swishes about when he turns his head, his _lips_ … 

“—employment like in chem?” 

Sherlock shakes himself back into the conversation. “I’ll definitely have to get a PhD in chemistry if I want to continue in this field. Good thing that’s not what I’m planning on doing,” he says, proud of his barely wavering voice. 

“Oh? What do you wanna do, then?” John is doing that thing where he looks fascinated again, and Sherlock feels his heart swell. 

“I want to be a consulting detective,” he says. 

John looks puzzled. “What’s that?”

“A detective, but freelance. I would assist the police when they’re out of their depth, which is always, but not as an official police officer. I could take regular cases on the side, as well.”

John’s face lights up. “That sounds _brilliant_! Especially after the bit of detective work you showed me the other day, you’d be perfect!”

Sherlock blushes to the tips of ears. 

***  
Coffee keeps happening. Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of it.

Nearly every day, they spend at least an hour in a Costa _talking_ , and Sherlock isn’t bored. Sherlock is _interested_. Sherlock is _captivated_. Everything John has to say is fascinating. 

Once, John’s leg had brushed up against Sherlock’s under the table, and Sherlock had blushed furiously, but John had _left it there_ , not even seeming to notice, and Sherlock could feel the ghost of the touch for the rest of the day. 

Another time, John had asked him to deduce some customers, and Sherlock had, and John had _loved_ it, had told him how brilliant he was, how amazing he was, and Sherlock had never felt that warm or happy, possibly in his entire life. 

But John is on the rugby team, and Sherlock knows what that means.

He sees them running about in the halls, always with a girl on their arm, and he knows that whatever this fizzing in his chest is, whatever the fluttering in his belly means, John doesn’t feel it back. 

And slowly, very slowly, the quiet, happy fizzing starts to turn into a tight pain.

***  
Somehow, they end up revising for midterms in Sherlock’s miniscule flat. 

There’s only one sofa, and it’s barely large enough for the two of them. They end up leaning back against it, their notes spilled out in front of them on the floor as they draw molecular cascades over and over again while John complains about how they’ll never have to use this in hospital, so why is it necessary to learn?

Sherlock smiles along, drawing his own cascades as he tries desperately not to think about the fact that John’s knee is pressed into his thigh. He feels this point of constant contact burn a hole in his skin, but when John readjusts his leg, he would much rather have the burning back than the sudden cold and emptiness. 

They revise for hours, quizzing each other towards the end of the night. Around midnight, John stretches his arms high above his head, yawning, and Sherlock can’t help but stare hungrily at the bit of golden skin the movement exposes. He nearly misses what John says next. 

“—go?”

“What?”

John smiles. “Always stuck in that giant brain of yours, huh?”

And Sherlock feels warm again, because John says it _fondly_ , like he doesn’t mind that Sherlock disappears into his own mind sometimes, like he finds it _endearing_.

The warmth abruptly fizzles out when John stands up to get his coat. John doesn’t like him that way.

He stands to walk John to the door. “Did you leave any papers here?” he asks, ever the considerate friend.

John shakes his head. He shuffles his feet a bit in the doorway, uncharacteristically shy. Sherlock frowns.

“Are you all right?” 

John runs a hand through his hair, laughs nervously. “Yeah, yeah… I just—Yeah.” He turns and starts for the stairs. 

Sherlock reaches for his arm. “John! What’s wrong? What did I do?” 

“No! You didn’t— It’s not you, you didn’t do anything, you’re _perfect_ ,” John says, a blush starting to creep up his cheeks. 

Sherlock is becoming increasingly sure he did something wrong. Horrified, he wonders if John noticed him watching him stretch, earlier. His hand trembles a bit where it’s clutching at John’s sleeve, and John notices immediately. 

“No, no, Sherlock, honestly, you didn’t do anything!” His hand is still scrubbing through his hair, ruffling it adorably, and Sherlock would be staring at it more if he wasn’t so scared. 

“Then what—.”

The words come crashing out like an avalanche.

“I love you, Sherlock. I think I’ve been in love with you since our third class together, and it’s all right, I know you don’t feel that way about me, but I just— I had to say it. You were so brilliant tonight, and I just. I had to say it. So. There. See? It’s nothing you did. It’s not you, you’re just… _brilliant._ Okay? You’re brilliant.” 

John stops, breathing hard, and Sherlock tries to collect himself just long enough to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

The molecular cascade he was drawing a moment ago comes bursting to the forefront of his mind. “I—Let me tell you about oxytocin!” is what his brain decides is the appropriate response to this situation. John gives him a fond little smile that turns immediately sad, then turns back again.

John starts to head down the stairs, his sleeve finally slipping from Sherlock’s convulsive grasp. He’s halfway down before Sherlock manages to shout, “ _Wait!_ ”

John stops like he’s hit a brick wall, then turns around, and the hope in his eyes would almost be painful to look at if it wasn’t perfectly reflected in Sherlock’s own.

“I love you, too,” he blurts out, and John _grins_ , his eyes sparkling as he rushes back up the stairs. 

They go back inside, shutting the door behind them, and then John is reaching up, sliding his fingers across Sherlock’s cheekbone as he whispers quietly, reverently, “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock tilts his head down and presses his lips to John’s, feeling it down to his toes when John presses back. His hands fall to John’s waist, pulling him close as their lips slide together and part. 

It’s everything Sherlock’s ever wanted, and more. 

John shrugs back out of his coat, leaving it abandoned by the door as Sherlock pulls them towards his bedroom. They’ve barely stepped inside when John pushes Sherlock backwards and Sherlock lands on the bed on his back, John looking down at him with a happy smile. 

“ _John_ ,” he breathes, and John climbs onto the bed so he can lie on top of him, pressing their lips together once more, sliding his tongue inside. At the first touch of John’s tongue, Sherlock moans, tightening his hold on him as John plunders his mouth from above. He can feel John’s answering erection against his own through their jeans, and he can’t help but buck up into the pressure, tasting John’s gasp on his tongue. 

Sherlock slips his fingers under John’s t-shirt, rucking it up. “I want to see you,” he manages between kisses, and John pulls it the rest of the way off, making quick work of Sherlock’s own t-shirt as well. When John lies down again, his naked skin feels like fire against Sherlock’s, and he never wants it to stop. Their trousers go next, then their pants, and then they’re lying next to each other, face to face and gloriously naked. 

John is perfect; Sherlock’s thought it a thousand times and will think it again a thousand more. His skin is golden from running around in the sun chasing after a stupid egg-shaped ball, providing the perfect contrast to Sherlock’s nearly unhealthily pale tone. His hair gleams even in the moonlight, and when he reaches for Sherlock, Sherlock’s eyes are drawn immediately to his flexing biceps. John is watching him, too, and he can’t help but feel like it’s an unfair bargain; his own body is thin and gangly, and much too pale. His insecurity must show in his eyes, because suddenly John’s fingers are under his chin, pulling it back up so he can look in his eyes. 

“You’re beautiful, Sherlock. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not,” he whispers, and then Sherlock is kissing him helplessly, moaning softly when John’s hands brush against the skin of his side. He explores John’s body with his own, running his hands across his chest and teasing his nipple as they kiss. John groans deeply when he does, and Sherlock repeats the experiment with the other one, loving John’s full-body writhe until John reaches up for revenge. 

The first touch to his own nipple sends sparks straight to his cock; he feels it jerk against John’s belly as he cries out, breaking the kiss. John grins at him, then tweaks his other nipple, immediately soothing it with his tongue. Sherlock can feel himself panting, moaning, and there’s nothing he can do about it, it just feels so _good_. John shuffles closer, and then they’re thrusting against each other, groaning into each other’s mouths at the contact. Sherlock gasps when John gets a hand around them both.

“This okay?” John murmurs, and Sherlock nods enthusiastically, his hands tightening on John’s shoulders. John keeps going, stroking up and down almost teasingly. He leans forwards and sucks at Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and Sherlock moans again, louder this time as he feels the tell-tale tightening in his belly. 

“John!” he manages to gasp out, and John smiles softly at him.

“It’s good, then?” John asks.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Sherlock babbles back. He’s almost there, so close, so _close_ , and—

John sucks hard at his left nipple and his orgasm crashes over him. He’s barely aware of himself shuddering apart in John’s arms. 

Just as the aftershocks start to clear, John makes a surprised sound and comes, too, his semen mixing with Sherlock’s between them as Sherlock pulls him close and kisses him through it. 

Once their breathing has evened out, John rearranges them so that their heads are on the pillows and pulls the blanket over the both of them. Sherlock is vaguely aware of the fact that there is a mess somewhere in the center of his bedspread, but he’s too warm and content to care. He shuffles around until his face is smushed into John’s shoulder and John’s arms are firmly around him. 

“I love you,” he tells John’s shoulder, and he feels John’s chest shake as he huffs out a relieved laugh. 

“I love you, too,” John whispers back, and Sherlock feels the fizzing come back full-force, the fluttering in his belly alive once again. 

And nothing could be more perfect.


End file.
